The Stranger from Abilene

Things were shaping up perfectly. He’d forget about the Hog’s contract to gun Clayton. With no time to plan, Nook Kelly, a born meddler, could make the job too dangerous.

He closed the door quietly behind him, smiling.

Now he had men to kill. And that he had planned.

Vestal had called the ranch’s six surviving hands off the range. Now that the place was sold and the servants dismissed, the men were on edge, concerned about their futures. In the changing West, gun wages were hard to come by and jobs were scarce for those who knew only the way of the Colt.

Vestal, smiling, reassuring, stepped into the bunkhouse, and tried to set the hands’ minds at rest.

Every single one of them would be well taken care of, he told them. Mr. Southwell in his will had left each man a year’s wages in the event of his death.

A lie. He had left everything to Lee.

He, Vestal, would try to find any man who wanted one a job, though he had heard—and don’t spread this around—that Angus McLean was interested in keeping gun hands on the payroll.

“See, you’ve got nothing to fear, boys,” Vestal said, beaming. “Why, old Park’s death could end up being the best damn thing that ever happened to you.”

A hollow cheer went up from the men, followed by a second, louder one when Vestal said, “Come up to the house, boys. Park had the best cellar in the territory and tonight I want to see you drink it dry.”

“Any whores, Shad?” a man yelled.

“No, Lee is spending the night in town,” Vestal said.

That last caused a bellow of laughter and Vestal joined in the mirth. Or seemed to. Inwardly he felt only a sense of triumph.

Yes, laugh now, you sorry trash. By the time the sun comes up tomorrow, you’ll be humping the Devil’s whores in hell.

Chapter 45

Men who hug the bottle too closely get drunk and noisy, then quiet and maudlin, and finally, and mercifully, they fall into a coma that’s a mean approximation of sleep.

It took the Southwell hands five hours to complete the process, just as the day slipped into night.

Vestal pretended to drink, sipping slowly and little. He joined in the laughter, the reminiscences, shed crocodile tears when they sang “She’s More to Be Pitied Than Censured,” and he watched with growing anticipation as heads drooped and men sprawled across the bottle-littered dining table and snored.

Later Vestal would tell himself that it was all sinfully easy, so easy that he reckoned years from now the memory of it would make him smile.

There was no fuss, no bother.

He fetched a carving knife from the kitchen and, one by one, cut six throats.

Oh, sure, a couple bubbled blood and one cried out, but the job was done quickly and Vestal was more than satisfied.

He walked to the kitchen, stripped off his bloody clothes, then scrubbed his hands and body with soap and water. He stepped into Park’s bedroom, found pants, slippers, and a smoking jacket he liked, and put them on.

Vestal returned to the dining room, where he sat at the top of the table, old Park’s place.

He poured himself a brandy, nodding his appreciation as he savored its musky, fruity aroma and taste.

The earth and its pleasures are for the living, not the dead.

It dawned on Vestal then, as it had many times in the past, that the dead are quiet. They hear nothing and spread no tales.

He lit a cigar, one of Park’s slim Havanas.

The hands had to die, of course.

They knew too much. All of them had culled Apaches, and alive could point fingers, tell tales.

Vestal nodded and aloud he said, “You’re in a better place now, boys.”

And that made him laugh. He splashed more brandy into his glass.

Later, he packed a single carpetbag. He could buy clothes in the latest style in Boston or wherever. He laid his holstered Colt at the bottom of the bag. He wouldn’t need it now. Later perhaps, but for the moment he wished to project an image of the rich, successful gentleman.

With that in mind, he went to his room and laid out his best go-to-prayer-meeting suit, white shirt, new elastic-sided boots, and then, his crowning glory, a cream-colored bowler hat, made in England of the finest felt.

He’d never worn these clothes before, but had bought them as part of his long-range plans.

Vestal looked in the mirror and admired the outrageously handsome man who stared back at him. Yellow hair cascaded in waves to his shoulders, his eyes were of the clearest blue, and his mustache was full, flowing, and magnificent.

That last would make the hearts of many a Boston belle flutter, he knew.

Perhaps he’d marry one, for her money of course. And then . . . well, he still had his gun.

Women were such useful but wonderfully disposable commodities.

As he had done with Lee, Vestal decided to leave the bodies where they lay. By the time anyone came out this way, he’d be long gone.

But now the silent dead bored him.

He lit another cigar, poured more brandy, and stepped outside into the cool of the evening.